Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  Neither man seemed aware of Margo and the strange little Scotswoman.

  Margo was very conscious of the crone.

  “That’s an odd thing to say. Women worthy of a lord of battle. ” Margo leaned harder against the table.

  Somehow, the woman’s piercing gaze made her feel as if the world were spinning around her. It was unnerving, and worsened her slight sense of dizziness. Just as disturbing, the crone was now shaking Margo’s arm.

  “Margo.” Marta’s concerned voice reached her, shattering the weirdness. “You’re as green as grass.” Her friend let go of Margo’s wrist and slid her arm protectively around Margo’s waist. “I told you it wasn’t a good idea to hang out here all morning, without eating. You should have joined us at the scone booth for breakfast. Now—”

  “I’m fine.” Margo shook herself free, glancing around.

  The little Scotswoman was gone.

  The drawing box had also disappeared. One of Donald Junior’s younger brothers must’ve carried the box to the Cabbage Rose auditorium.

  The box’s removal meant the drawing was imminent.

  Margo’s heart began to thump. She turned back to Marta. “Did you see a little old lady just now? A Scotswoman all tricked out in traditional costume?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Marta glanced around at the jeans-clad throng.

  “No.” Margo followed her friend’s gaze. “She said she was from the Isle of Doon.”

  Marta lifted a brow. “I don’t think there is an Isle of Doon in Scotland?”

  “There isn’t.” Margo was sure. “Only a Loch Doon in Ayrshire.”

  “Then she was pulling your leg.”

  “Maybe.” Margo was still looking around.

  Many women, including elderly ones, had turned out in their own versions of Scottish dress. But in most cases, their imagination was limited to a tartan sash or a thistle-bearing T-shirt. A few wannabe vamps paraded about in mini-kilts and thigh-high boots. Only the very young girls—usually aged eight or so—who were Scottish dancers wore traditional Highland costume.

  No one had on small black boots with red plaid laces.

  Not even the most eccentric of the granny set.

  Purple hair seemed to be the hit with the geriatrics.

  Though there was an older woman who looked like an aged hippie walking about with heather sprigs woven into her thick, gray braids. She also boasted a blue and white saltire tattoo on her somewhat swollen ankle.

  No escapees from the Brothers Grimm.

  Margo frowned and rubbed the back of her neck.

  She slid a glance at Donald Junior. But she knew without interrupting his sgian dubh sales pitch that if she asked him about the odd little woman, he’d say he hadn’t seen her.

  Because—Margo felt ill—there hadn’t been a witchy-like crone.

  She’d surely imagined her.

  Her nerves were shredded.

  That was all.

  But the old woman had seemed so real.

  “O-o-oh, look!” The pinch Marta suddenly gave her arm was real. “That has to be the Scottish author. Over there”—she pointed toward the row of clan tents—“heading towards the auditorium.”

  “Good Lord.” Margo’s eyes rounded. “I think you’re right.”

  Wee Hughie MacSporran—if the tall, heavyset man in a kilt was indeed the Highland author-cum-historian-cum-touring-company-owner—had a patrician air about him that bordered on pompous.

  He strutted like a peacock. A group of squealing, fawning women hurried in his wake, many clutching books they surely wanted him to sign. But he marched on without acknowledging them, his chin held high and his shoulders set in prideful determination. He really did look like a kilted teddy bear. But his arrogance ruined the cuteness of his apple red cheeks and bright blue eyes.

  Margo’s heart sank.

  She hadn’t expected a Magnus MacBride look-alike. But Highland Storyweaver had conjured very different images in her mind.

  A swellhead wasn’t one of them.

  “He looks like he expects people to applaud just because he walks by.” Margo glanced at Marta, then back at the Scottish author.

  His thinning red hair and paunch dimmed the splendor of his tweed Argyll jacket and white, open-necked ghillie shirt. But the shirt’s old-fashioned Jacobite styling did what it was meant to do. He looked as if he’d just walked off Culloden Battlefield.

  And his fur-covered, three-tasseled sporran appeared equally authentic. His kilt—Margo recognized it as a MacDonald plaid—swung smartly about his knees, his brisk strides showing the confidence of a man well accustomed to wearing Highland national dress.

  “Maybe he’s not as inflated as he looks.” Ever the optimist, Marta grabbed Margo’s arm and began pulling her across the grass, away from A Dash o’

  Plaid and toward the Cabbage Rose.

  “He’s probably very nice.” Marta took another jab at playing diplomat.

  Margo tried not to roll her eyes.

  Wee Hughie looked so vain, she suspected he’d burst like a gas-filled balloon if someone pricked him with a pin. But she kept the sentiment to herself.

  Pipes and drums were already sounding from inside the auditorium. The rousing tones electrified the air, stirring anticipation. And the crowd of people who’d been thronging the entrance was gone, everyone having entered the building and—Margo felt her heart flutter—no doubt hoping to hear their name announced as the grand-prize winner of the seven-day trip to Scotland.

  “Come on, we need to hurry.” Marta was almost running now. “They’ll be getting ready for the drawing.

  Especially”—she flashed Margo a smile—“when Wee Hughie arrives.”

  That was true.

  And suddenly Margo didn’t care if Wee Hughie MacSporran, Highland Storyweaver, used a golden trumpet to blast his glory before calling out the winning name.

  As long as the name was hers, she’d be happy.

  But nerves seized her when she and Marta nipped inside the auditorium and Darcy Sullivan, the Cabbage Rose’s owner and sponsor of the annual Scottish Festival, greeted them with a brilliant smile.

  “Margo! I hear you have excellent chances of winning the raffle.” She winked at Marta. “A little birdie told me you bought three hundred and fifty tickets.” She leaned close, her green eyes sparkling. “I’m rooting for you.”

  “Thanks.” Margo could hardly breathe.

  She was shaking.

  Now that the big day had arrived—so many of her hopes and dreams hanging on a single draw—her chest felt as tight as if someone had clamped an iron vise around her ribs, and her heart was pounding like a drum. Her legs felt like rubber and if anyone else spoke to her, she was sure she’d only manage to babble incoherent nonsense.

  All the tables were filled and a crush of people crowded the aisles and lined the walls at the building’s crowded the aisles and lined the walls at the building’s outer edges. The noise was deafening. A great din of excited voices rose and fell. On the stage, a pipes and drums band played a lively tune near the podium where Donald McVittie Sr. was just preparing to introduce Wee Hughie MacSporran. At least that was what Margo thought Donald was doing.

  It was hard to tell when the only thing she really saw was the big tartan-wrapped box sitting on a table near Donald and the Highlander.

  A spotlight shone on the box, drawing attention to its importance.

  Margo forced herself to look away. She was afraid she’d jinx her chances if she stared too long at the box that held her heart’s desire.

  Seeking calm, she glanced at the wall behind the Scottish luncheon buffet. Darcy Sullivan’s Cabbage Rose Gift Emporium and Tea Room was actually Irish, and a local artist—who’d since married an Irishman and moved to Ireland—had painted huge, wall-filling murals of the Emerald Isle in the tea room and in the auditorium.

  The images created a quaint and whimsical collage that reminded Margo of the Highlands—even though she knew that the winding country road
s and gleaming whitewashed cottages were meant to be Irish.

  Scottish cottages also had thick walls and thatched roofs. And the portrayals of fiddlers entertaining foot-stomping crowds in smoke-hazed pubs could easily be set somewhere in Scotland. Likewise the windswept cliffs, gold-sanded strands, and endless stretches of blue, sparkling seas, could be ripped from Margo’s own dreams. The artist—Margo couldn’t recall the woman’s name—had surely loved Ireland with the same passion Margo felt for Scotland.

  Only the artist—lucky soul—hadn’t just won a trip to the land she loved so much.

  She’d found romance with a local and moved there.

  Margo frowned, not liking the stab of jealousy that pierced her as she stared at the woman’s paintings.

  She should be happy for the artist.

  Trying to distract herself, she took a deep breath—and another—as Marta led her to a front table where Patience and Ardelle were looking their way, waving hellos.

  The two older women had dressed alike, each wearing a flowing ankle-length skirt, white long-sleeved shirt, and blue-and-green plaid vest. A large hand-painted poster announcing that Margo is going to Scotland! was propped on the table, balanced against a bottle of champagne and four fluted cut-crystal glasses.

  “You are going to win.” Ardelle reached out to squeeze her hand.

  Patience leaned close as Margo took a chair. “I spoke a good-fortune spell this morning.” Marta smiled. “See? What can possibly go wrong?” A drumroll and flourish of pipes implied only thrilling excitement, sweeping everyone from the bustling auditorium straight to the rolling vastness of empty heather moors and wild, wind-whipped seas. Lights dimmed as the stirring tones faded and Donald McVittie took his place beside the tartan-wrapped drawing box.

  The room fell silent.

  “My friends, welcome!” Donald spread his arms, beaming. “The moment we’ve all been awaiting is here. But first”—he glanced at Wee Hughie—“I’ll let Scotland’s premier author and historian whet your appetite for the Highlands with a wee taste of what Heritage Tours has planned for you.” Wee Hughie straightened his shoulders, and joined Donald beneath the beam of a spotlight. “Good afternoon.” He bowed slightly, looking pleased by the clapping that sounded from the crowd. “I’m delighted that my U.S. book-tour schedule allowed me to join you today. It does my heart good to see so many Americans enthusiastic about my homeland. You’ve heard of kilts, clans, and tartans, Highland mist and castles. Scotland is all that and more.

  “At Heritage Tours, we show you the Scotland of your dreams, ensuring you’ll experience the holiday of a lifetime.” He paused, taking a glossy brochure from beside the drawing box. “Today’s grand-prize winner will start his or her adventure the moment they step from the plane.

  “A luxury coach, fully climate-controlled and with large viewing windows, will whisk you into the heart of Glasgow city with its grand cathedral, followed by a visit to Stirling Castle and Bannockburn, Scone Palace, and on to the bonnie shores of Loch Lomond for lunch. Afternoon will take us to the wilds of Rannoch Moor, the mist-drenched hills of Glencoe”—

  Wee Hughie’s soft Highland burr deepened, filling the auditorium as he read from the tour itinerary—“Fort William for tea and shopping, plus a look at the West Highland Museum there, and then more shopping at Spean Bridge and Fort Augustus. A Nessie-sighting walk along Loch Ness and a stop at Urquhart Castle before we drive on to Inverness, where you’ll—” A flurry of oohs and aahs rose from the listeners.

  The sound of faint rustling as people shifted in their seats, leaning forward to catch Wee Hughie’s every word.

  Margo stared at him, horrified.

  Her dream of standing on a lonely heather-clad hill, mist swirling around her as she soaked up peat-scented air and atmosphere, shattered around her like glittering shards of broken glass.

  “Is he reading the program for a single day?” Marta glanced at Margo, wide-eyed.

  “I think so.” Actually, Margo was sure.

  She’d found a tour itinerary on the table and she was following along as he called out the stops. And every one of the seven days looked as busy and hectic as the first. If she won the trip, she’d be lucky to stand in one place long enough to snap a picture.

  There wouldn’t be time for anything else.

  Marta snatched the brochure from Margo’s fingers.

  “Gads!” She glanced up at once, her eyes even rounder than before. “You’ll need a month off work to recuperate from a pace like this.”

  “Maybe I won’t win.” Suddenly Margo knew she would.

  Such a tour fit her luck, after all.

  Who else would win a trip to Scotland that would be such a whirlwind that she wouldn’t actually get to see the land of her dreams?

  Dina Greed would die laughing.

  A metallic screech from the microphone, followed by a tap-tapping noise and a man clearing his throat, signaled that the big moment had come. Donald McVittie had lifted the tartan drawing box and was shaking it vigorously.

  Wee Hughie MacSporran held out his hands and dramatically wriggled his fingers.

  “In the name of my great-great-grandfather, Scotland’s most famous hero king, Robert the Bruce”—he paused for effect, glancing regally at the audience—“I’m honored to declare that the grand-prize winner of my next Heritage Tour of Scotland is ...”

  He thrust his hand into the box.

  Marta, Patience, and Ardelle leapt from their seats, each woman placing her hands on Margo’s shoulders.

  Margo closed her eyes, her heart beating wildly despite her having seen the light speed of the itinerary.

  It was still Scotland.

  Margo’s throat thickened and her eyes burned, her vision turning blurry. Blood roared in her ears, making it difficult to hear. But Wee Hughie was a big man and his voice was deep, carrying. He was also peering down at the small red ticket in his hand.

  He looked up then, scanning the crowd. “My ancestry makes it a duty to act as Scotland’s ambassador.” His voice swelled on the words, pride shining on his red-cheeked face. “Therefore I’m delighted to welcome”—he paused—“Margo Menlove to my next Heritage Tour!”

  “Margo!” Her friends pulled her to her feet, hugging her, as everyone in the audience cheered and clapped, calling good wishes.

  Then—somehow—she had made her way through the throng and was walking up the steps to the stage and the podium, where Wee Hughie MacSporran, Donald McVittie, and Darcy Sullivan stood waiting to greet her.

  Wee Hughie was smiling and holding an oversized air ticket, his pompous airs gone for the moment. He looked genuinely pleased to meet her. Dimples even creased his cheeks, making him appear almost boyish. Margo relaxed, suddenly hopeful that she’d misjudged him.

  The tour would be wonderful.

  And she was going to enjoy every minute.

  Chapter 7

  There was a saying about needing to be careful of wishes, lest they come true.

  Three weeks, one Atlantic crossing, and too many days of Wee Hughie MacSporran later, Margo shifted in the aisle seat of her Heritage Tours luxury coach—named Sword of Somerled after one of Wee Hughie’s illustrious forebears—and deeply regretted having never paid much heed to the adage. Working with Patience and at Ye Olde Pagan Times, she should know that anything you put into the cosmos can circle back and bite you.

  Just now, she felt more than bitten.

  Chomped struck her as appropriate.

  The iron jaws of fate were having a field day with her, grinding down hard. Feeling the pain, she tried to stifle her irritability and failed.

  At the front of the coach, Wee Hughie preened.

  Beside him, their driver expertly maneuvered them along a winding coastal road. A small and genial Glaswegian, he seemed immune to the Highlander’s airs. He simply kept his eyes straight ahead, smiling the while.

  Wee Hughie looked philosophical.

  “Even today”—Wee Hughie sent an appreciative glance
at the vista of cliffs and sea beyond the coach windows—“Highlanders reflect the fierceness of their land. Study our faces and you’ll see the same bold, unrelenting spirit. Listen to our voices and you’ll hear the soft rain and birdsong, or the howl of a black autumn gale. We thrill to cold, gray seas and hills soaked with chill mist and the silence of winter darkness. The wildness and desolation that doesn’t dampen our spirit, but makes our hearts soar.” Margo followed his gaze, for once agreeing with him.

  She could almost smell the salt air. If it weren’t for the coach’s thick window glass, she knew she’d taste brine in the racing wind. It would lace the darker, richer scent of damp, peaty earth and pine. If she craned her neck, she just could see the surf boiling over the glistening black rocks that lined the shore.

  But the man she imagined limned against such magnificence didn’t bear any resemblance to MacSporran.

  She saw Magnus beside the sea.

  Her mind’s eye put him there in all his war glory. His raven hair blew in the wind, and his gold and silver arm rings shone brightly, rivaling the glint of his sword and the sheen of his mail.

  His dark gaze brooded on the sea and he held one hand against his sword hilt.

  He was a hard-looking warrior.

  And the most beautiful, wildly exciting man that Margo could imagine.

  Her pulse quickened and she started to smile, her annoyance beginning to fade. But then Wee Hughie cleared his throat, shattering her dreams.

  “Highland men are counted as the bravest and most daring in Britain’s military forces.” He put back his shoulders, standing tall. “This should not surprise us.

  Their valor was hewn of granite and cold, northern winds. Their courage ripped from the high, rocky crags and wild, steep-sided glens they called their home.

  “My ancestors were the proud kings of this land and they—” He stopped abruptly, assuming a humble mien as he raised a hand to still the smattering of oohs and aahs that rippled through the coach at the mention of his blood connections to Scottish royalty.

  “My forebears,” Wee Hughie resumed, “played strong roles in forming the Scotland we know today.